by Kresley Cole
Her would-be savior stumbled. From the ice coating the street? No, he seemed to be fighting some inner possession.
What’s wrong with him? I can’t think . . .
One Iceren punched the end of the remaining arrow until it pierced through the vampire’s torso. He tore it from himself, but another’s sword slashed his leg. Blood poured from his wounds.
There’re too many of them.
As if he read her thoughts, the vampire caught her gaze. A last look for both of them?
“Touch their skin,” she cried.
Though clearly confused by her words, he grasped one around the neck under the male’s collar. The Iceren bellowed in pain.
The vampire’s lips curled at the sound. Baring his wicked fangs, he laid his palm on another’s face. A hand-shaped brand pressed into the Iceren’s skin.
Seeming fresh to the fray, the vampire grew even stronger—and more vicious, appearing intent on making it hurt as he dispatched them.
Soon scattered limbs littered the alley at gruesome angles. He easily separated heads from savaged necks, yelling as if with pleasure as the blood flowed.
Yet he never bit them. She saw he truly did forbear, and still he was somehow defeating them, sustaining injuries he didn’t seem to feel, wound after wound that barely slowed him.
As he faced off against the last one standing, she wondered how much of the blood covering him was his own.
But one of the Iceren the vampire had felled wasn’t dead. He’d clamped his neck, stemming the rush of blood. Unseen behind the vampire, he struggled to his feet and silently collected his sword.
“Look out!”
At her warning, he twisted around. The one he’d been fighting tackled him in a wrestler’s grip from behind, holding him for the one with the sword.
Oh, no, no. . . She’d be damned if she’d let this warrior vampire die.
A weapon, she needed a weapon. Her gaze fell to her chest, to the six arrows riddling it.
Was she strong enough to do this?
She gritted her teeth and fisted one of the bloody arrow shafts. Choking back a scream, she wrested it from her body.
The pain made her vision waver, her muscles going limp. No! Fight!
Holding the feathered end, she threw it like a knife. It skewered the swordsman’s neck.
The last thing she saw was the vampire snapping his head back to smash the face of the one holding him, breaking free to snatch up a sword.
When she forced her lids open once more, he was staggering toward her, his fangs still bared, his eyes black amid the blood covering his face. He’d savaged them and now was stalking closer to her.
Yet she was unafraid. He’d told her he was going to give her their heads.
And he had.
Dropping to his knees beside her, he reached for her wrist. She shrank from him, but not quickly enough to prevent contact. When she cried out, he jerked his hand away, gaping at the burn mark he’d left on her skin.
“No . . . can’t be.” His tone was rough, almost snarling. “You’re like them? But you’re a Valkyrie!”
She blinked up at him. “Part . . . ice fey.”
In that growl of a voice, he repeated, “You’re like them.” The big male was so unsure, so confounded by her nature. “I’ll burn you?”
She nodded weakly.
“Is there no way I can touch you?”
“N-Never.”
“Who can tend to you, then? Do you live in New Orleans? With other Valkyrie?”
“They’ll kill you.” If the vampire brought her to her coven, her sisters would behead him on sight and ask questions later.
Besides, she didn’t have that kind of time.
If this vampire didn’t save her . . .
I’m going to shatter like ice.
FIVE
WITH EFFORT, THE FEMALE WHISPERED, “YOU . . . help me.”
“How? When I’ll burn you?” Can’t comprehend this. She’s blooded me, this odd little creature whose skin can’t be touched.
No, she couldn’t be his Bride. He couldn’t be blooded. But his breaths mocked him, his thundering heart a constant reminder.
When his heart had first beat in the midst of the fight, it had sounded like an explosion, stunning him and nearly costing him his life. He’d inhaled, shuddering as air flooded his untried lungs, filling him with renewed strength.
Even now he was dizzy from his injuries, but his body still felt strong.
“I’ll try to find Nikolai—Myst will be with him. She’ll better know what to do.”
His brother had described what happened when he’d been blooded, so Murdoch knew what to expect physically. But Nikolai had neglected to tell him that instinct, raw and bare, would take over.
“You, please. Arrows poison to me. No time.”
Poison? No, she couldn’t die like this. If she was a Valkyrie, then she was immortal.
But what did he know? He also hadn’t thought a Valkyrie could be burned by his touch.
He ripped away the bottom of his shirt and wrapped his hands, then gently scooped her into his arms. Though their skin never touched, the movement jostled the arrows, making her whimper in pain.
He clenched his jaw, wanting to slaughter those fucks all over again, to punish them slowly. “Why trust me with this?” he snapped. Why did she want him to care for her? Why would she think him capable of it?
She tried to focus on his face, her silvery eyes going blank. “I . . . don’t know why.”
“You’ll probably regret trusting me with your life.”
In answer, she went limp, helpless in his arms.
Lord Jádian the Cold, general of the Icere, had watched the conflict impassively from his vantage in a warehouse above the street.
In his long life, he’d fought against vampires countless times, and he had the scars to prove it. But the one below had been stronger, faster. Now it crouched over Daniela the Ice Maiden. Crouched protectively. An unlikely ally for the female?
After tonight, there was no doubt that Daniela was Icere; it was bred into every line of her.
But she was also fierce like the Valkyrie—she’d wrenched a fire arrow from her own chest to cast at her enemy. He knew exactly how powerful that poison was, had harvested it himself from a fire demoness’s horns.
Yes, Daniela was strong. As her mother Queen Svana had been.
When the vampire below disappeared with her, Jádian leapt down to collect the fire blade. It wouldn’t do to lose it—the same knife had been used to take Svana the Great’s head.
Jádian planned to wield it again.
He turned from the carnage, ignoring the low creatures that had already begun feeding on his fallen comrades. He walked on with the knowledge that Daniela was a threat that could no longer be ignored.
Just as Danii dimly perceived a bed beneath her, pain exploded in her chest. She woke to her own screaming, writhing in agony, bucking away from the source.
“Easy, girl,” the vampire’s deep voice intoned. “Have to get this dress off you.”
She cracked open her lids, found herself on a mattress on the floor in some dark-paneled room. The vampire was surveying her with eyes the color of obsidian, a knife in one of his gloved hands.
He’d put gloves on? Good vampire. “In Kristoff’s castle?”
“How did you—? No, we’re not there.” He finished slashing away the rest of her dress, leaving her in panties. He’d already removed her boots. “We’re in a mill outside New Orleans.”
He set aside the knife, seeming more uncomfortable with her nudity than she was. With a swallow, he wrapped his fist around an arrow just above her breast. He used his other hand to press her shoulder into the mattress. “We’ll count to three.”
She met his eyes and nodded. His gaze was frenzied, yet it comforted her. Never looking away, she gritted her teeth.
“One . . . two—”
Yank.
She choked on a scream, and lightning exploded just outsi
de the house. His eyes darted around uneasily as he tossed the arrow to the floor.
Between panting breaths, she cried, “Remind me . . . to teach you . . . to count.”
“Are you ready for another?”
Was she? How much more pain could she take?
“Think of something else, girl.” He clutched another arrow. “Or tell me your name.”
Another yank, another scream swallowed. Outside, lightning flashed once more, and thunder rocked the roof timbers.
He warily gazed upward before his attention settled on another arrow. As he worked the next shaft free—this one was lodged in her sternum—she clenched her fists into the sheets, fighting not to twist from him. The arrowhead grated against bone as it finally gave way.
“Your name,” he demanded.
She gasped out, “Daniela.”
“Daniela.” He gave a tight nod. “Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.”
She choked on a hysterical laugh, sending her into a wet coughing fit. Blood bubbled from her mouth when she uttered, “Beautiful . . . kidding?”
His expression darkened. “I only meant that you’re lovely in form, or you would be—never mind.”
“You’re . . . skeevy.”
He gazed away, looking like he was mentally cursing himself.
After such a long life, she was going to die of poison in the care of a crazed, skeevy vampire who couldn’t count.
“My name is Murdoch Wroth.”
“I know.” He was brother to Nikolai, which meant he was one of the Wroths, four Estonian warlords famous in their time for their ruthless defense of their country. Five years ago, the Valkyrie had learned from Myst that two of the brothers had been turned to vampires. Nikolai and . . . Murdoch.
“How could you know my name?”
She tried to shrug, but only grimaced.
He let it drop. “Two more to go. Who were those men who did this to you?”
“You wouldn’t know them—”
Yank. Her vision began to flicker again.
“Stay with me.” Had he smoothed a gloved hand over her hair?
“Only one left,” he said, then added in a murmur, “Brave girl.”
For some reason, she felt a rush of pride that he saw her as brave. She’d been weakened for so long, exiled from the very ice that made her stronger. She struggled to remain conscious, wavering in and out.
“Will more of them be coming for you?” he asked.
“They always do. Sooner or later.”
“Why would they want to kill you?”
She mumbled, “I was born.”
“What does that mean?”
“Can’t tell you . . . ’bout the Lore.”
“Because I’m a Forbearer?” This plainly infuriated him. “You think Myst won’t be telling Nikolai your secrets?”
“You think . . . they’ll be talking tonight?”
He frowned as if she was confusing him, or more like she was throwing him. “Last arrow.”
This one was wedged under her collarbone, refusing to come out. “Almost finished, sweet.” He pinned her to the mattress, twisting and pulling as she bit back a shriek. “Just hold on.”
Finally, it gave way in a rush of blood. “There.” He threw it aside. “Now what do I do?”
She lay stunned, panting raggedly. Too late. . . .
Even with the arrows removed, too much poison remained inside her. She started convulsing from the heat, couldn’t stop.
“Daniela, tell me!”
In her two thousand years of living, she’d never been this hot. Ah, gods, thermal shock.
Death by shattering. Just as she’d been warned as a girl. Porcelain doll. The starkest fear she’d ever known welled inside her.
She weakly grabbed his shirt. “Shock. Put me in . . . ice bath.”
“Shock—what do you mean?”
“’Bout to . . . die.”
SIX
MURDOCH SWOOPED HER UP SO FAST his wounded leg almost gave way. In a flash, he traced her to the bathroom.
Inside, he began running a cold bath. Once he’d settled her in the large tub, he traced to a gas station, returning a few moments later with stolen bags of ice.
As he ripped open the bags to dump their contents into the water, he muttered, “This feels wrong to me. Goes against everything I know.”
Because she was like nothing he’d ever known.
Am I truly covering a half-naked, critically injured female with ice?
But when she was up to her neck in it, she sighed in relief. The cold wasn’t bracing or painful to her—it was clearly soothing, making her drowsy.
Her shuddering lessened, and her expression calmed.
When the fear in her eyes ebbed . . . He didn’t even want to think about the relief he felt to see that. “Are you still in danger from the poison?”
“Nothing else can be done.” She frowned, her gaze unfocused. “You’re injured.”
“It’s nothing,” he gruffly replied.
“Take care of yourself, vampire—” Her lids fluttered, and then she was out.
Sleeping. In ice.
He couldn’t reconcile this coldness in her. She was like nothing he’d ever dreamed.
But it didn’t matter if he understood her. Even if she appeared more comfortable, she wasn’t out of danger. Her face was still flushed angrily. If cold was good for her, then she needed more of it.
He traced to the thermostat, turning on the air-conditioning full force. Though he didn’t want to leave her—not to drink from the supply of blood he kept in the kitchen, nor to bandage his own wounds—he traced for more ice, stuffing the freezer full.
That task completed, he watched over her, beginning the most anxious vigil he’d held since the night his entire family had died, one by one.
As he paced the spacious bathroom, he couldn’t take his gaze off her. Though Daniela had found him skeevy for remarking on her looks, he could see past her injuries. She was lovely, no doubt of it.
She had long flaxen hair, spreading past her shoulders and down to cover her breasts. Her lips were softly plump, parted around her shallow breaths. Lush lips. He imagined pressing his own over them, then teasing her tongue with his.
With a start, he realized he was growing hard for her. He groaned. My first erection in three hundred years. The erection he’d been hoping to avoid. Christ, I am truly blooded?
By a . . . Valkyrie.
They were warlike, many rumored to be half crazed. To be tied forever to a woman like that—and one he could never touch? A living hell.
No, surely there had to be a way for him to touch her, to claim her. Or would this one leave him in agony as Myst had Nikolai?
He crossed to the tub, crouching beside her, his injured leg screaming in protest. Ignoring that wound, he took her hand in his gloved ones, examining it. So delicate. But he’d seen her fragile-looking claws slash through a male’s bone this night.
He released her hand to cup icy water and pour it over her hair, smoothing blood from the strands. Then he clumsily unthreaded her braids and rinsed them.
Why this care? Because it kept his mind off his fear for her—and his apprehension about his future. So he continued to run ice over the bruises on her shoulders and arms. Gradually, the hectic red of her face diminished, leaving pale, alabaster skin. Her breaths started to smoke.
As her wounds began to close seamlessly, his own pain increased. He’d been losing blood from his many injuries, didn’t know how he could still be conscious.
Before, he’d been too concerned with keeping her alive to think about much of anything else. Now he became acutely aware that her blood was all over him, marking his bed and the arrows on the floor.
The scent was like nothing he’d ever known. Thirst lashed him like a whip. His shaft shot harder. Damn it, ignore it.
His gaze trailed the lines of her jaw, her dainty pointed ears, her neck. Drinking straight from the flesh was against the laws of his order, because living bl
ood carried the victim’s memories, which in turn maddened vampires. Their enemies in the Horde, the Fallen, had all gone red-eyed with insanity.
What if he lost control and bit her? Every male in his order feared becoming one of the Fallen. Murdoch was no different, but breaking that law had never even been a consideration for him. He’d never understood the temptation.
Until now. Am I going to make it to dawn without taking her neck? He had to.
The damage I would do to her . . . Earlier, her wrist had all but sizzled beneath his palm. What would happen to her tender neck under his fangs and lips as he pinned her down?
Would he burn her as he licked her flesh in ecstasy?
Tearing his eyes away, he shot to his feet, tracing to the bedroom. He scooped up the arrows and stained bedding and pitched them outside. While he was there, he shed his torn jacket.
Then he traced to the refrigerator, pouring a cup of blood. Though he was depleted from his injuries, when he tried to drink, it tasted like dirt. He forced himself to swallow.
Damn it, get the cup down. Ignore this lust, blood and otherwise.
After managing barely half of the contents, he returned, gazing down at her face. She lay so still, her blond-tipped lashes a sweep against her pale cheeks.
The mere idea of hurting her sent him reeling. He needed to protect her.
Without opening her eyes, she whispered on a frosty breath, “Murdoch?”
“Do you need more ice?” he quickly asked. Most of it had melted, but the wounds that had marred her chest were practically healed.
She shook her head.
“Do you want to get out of the water?”
In answer, she lifted her arms to him. He frowned. So trusting, so vulnerable.
He gathered her against his chest, then traced her back to his bed. Still holding her, he grabbed a towel for her to lie on.
Her breasts moved against his arm as he laid her down, and his cock shot even harder. For three hundred years, Murdoch had had no interest in women’s breasts.
Now he nearly growled with pleasure.
Drawing back, he saw that her eyes were open, half-lidded. Gone was the silver. They were an aquamarine almost too vivid to be real.